The Last Shot

The Last Shot

The court still smelled like sweat and cheap rubber soles.

It had been ten years since Jordan Rayburn had walked through the gym doors of Elridge High. Ten years since he’d been the town’s golden boy, the one destined for the NBA, the one with a full-ride to Duke and a smile that lit up recruiters’ eyes.

Ten years since everything had come crashing down in a flood of headlines, betrayal, and a torn shoulder that never healed right.

Now, the bleachers were dusty, the scoreboard flickered, and the team’s win column hadn’t seen movement in weeks.

And Jordan? He was standing in front of twelve skinny, unsure teenagers with worn shoes and wide eyes.

"You're the guy who choked in the semi-finals, right?" one of them blurted, half-joking.

Jordan looked at the kid, deadpan. “No. I’m the guy who made it to the semi-finals with a busted shoulder and two cracked ribs.”

The room went quiet.

Coach Daniels, his former P.E. teacher turned principal, chuckled from the door. “Boys, meet your new coach. Try not to scare him off. I had to dig through a lot of pride to get him back here.”

Jordan didn’t come back to teach. He didn’t come back for closure. Truth was, he didn’t know why he came back. His agent stopped calling years ago. His name only trended in connection to scandal. Sponsorships had dried up like a sun-baked court in August.

Elridge was a town with long memory and short forgiveness.

But there was something about this team—uncoordinated, unfocused, and completely hopeless—that made him curious.

He started with the basics: running drills, footwork, passing like a team. No one could shoot. No one guarded well. Half of them didn’t know how to play without checking TikTok every few minutes.

But they showed up. And that was more than he’d expected.

Week by week, Jordan watched the rust begin to fall off—not just the team, but himself. He stopped sleeping until noon. He started cooking again. He even picked up a basketball—just to show a move, never to shoot.

He told them he couldn’t play because of “old injuries.” What he didn’t tell them was that his shoulder never fully healed. That he’d been told he might never raise his arm properly again. That every time he thought about his last game, he felt like vomiting.

Then there was Malik.

Skinny kid. Fast hands. Smart feet. Reminded Jordan of himself at fifteen—too much confidence, too little control.

“You ever think about playing beyond high school?” Jordan asked one day after practice.

Malik shrugged. “Maybe. Coach says I’m good.”

“You are,” Jordan said. “But good doesn’t get you out. Discipline does.”

Malik tilted his head. “That what happened to you? No discipline?”

Jordan smiled, tight. “Nah. I had discipline. I just trusted the wrong people—and didn’t listen when I should have.”

It happened after a home game.

They won—barely—but it felt like the first real win in years. The crowd was louder. The players smiled like they believed it now.

Jordan stayed behind, cleaning up water bottles, when he saw it. The ball, sitting at the three-point line. Like it was waiting.

His shoulder ached just looking at it.

He hadn’t taken a shot in seven years.

No one was around.

He stepped up. Took the ball. Turned his body. Raised his arm.

Pain shot down his side. But he held the form.

Release.

The ball arced through the gym like time folding back on itself—and swished through the net.

Silence.

Then slow clapping.

Jordan turned and saw Coach Daniels in the doorway.

“Still got it,” he said. “Even if it hurts.”

Jordan laughed, breath catching. “One shot doesn’t make a comeback.”

Daniels stepped onto the court. “No. But it’s a start.”

The next game, Malik got elbowed hard and benched for the second half. The team fell behind. Confidence slipped.

At halftime, the boys looked to Jordan. Expectation heavy on their faces.

“We’re not pros,” one kid muttered. “We’re not even decent.”

Jordan stared at the clipboard in his hands. His shoulder throbbed.

“Do you know why I came back?” he said, quiet.

The room went still.

“Because I forgot what the game felt like before it became about fame. Before agents and interviews and money. I came back because I needed to remember who I was. And I remembered… right here. With you.”

He met Malik’s eyes.

“You have the chance I lost. All of you. And I’m gonna do everything I can to get you there.”

They lost that game.

But it was close.

The next one, they won. And the next.

By the end of the season, they made the playoffs for the first time in a decade.

Jordan never took another shot. He didn’t need to.

His redemption didn’t come from scoring points—it came from giving them away.

From watching Malik sink the buzzer-beater in the quarter-finals. From watching the team lift a trophy with cracked hands and tired smiles.

From knowing he had taken the last shot he ever needed to, alone in a quiet gym—and it had gone in.